One Last Dance, Catnip?
by ilovemythoroughbred
Summary: "Who was I, to expect him to run on my time, when I had already become the hand of someone else's clock?" A moment in the woods after Mockingjay, Katniss is with Peeta but considering what that choice meant. One shot.


"Ready, love?" he asks, his fingers slipping down the back of my hand as he begins to walk away from the meadow.

"Hold on," I reply at a whisper, though there's nobody to hear me besides him. "I need a second."

He moves forward, his feet crashing on the dried grasses that cover the foot between us. He brushes his lips against my forehead, and then steps back. "Are you alright, Katniss?" his gaze is almost accusing.

"I'm fine, I promise," I reply with a smile. "I just need a moment. I'm fine, honestly."

"If you say so," he answers, touching his fingertips against my cheek before he walks off.

It feels strikingly wrong to have him in our woods. He's just as wrong for the forest, crashing through the grass and weeds with the feet of an elephant, shooting fearful glances at the playful chipmunks.

But, when _he_ stands in this godforsaken forest, he is just as much a part of it as the redwoods that flank our first meeting place. In fact, he is a bit of a redwood, isn't he? Tall, broad shoulders, steady …

I walk a bit more, knowing all too well I'm taking more than a second here. But, I can still see the stains on the rock from a berry fight, if I look hard enough. Harder even I listen, and I catch his thick laughter ringing around the trees, bouncing off the rocks, intertwining with the bushes. He is undeniably there, in every aspect of these woods.

But, if I look even harder, scrutinize every grain of this film, I can see the stains of what happened. I can still see the smears of anger, unfairness, on every needle of the pine tree on the right, every petal of the evening primrose by my feet.

I have ruined this place. He had nothing to do with it — in fact, I took this place from him when we first met, and perhaps not so surprisingly, I haven't returned it. I am walking on stolen time, paying with the illegal currency of my mistakes.

Either way, the place is remarkably familiar, considering the years that stretch between now and the last time these trees heard the sound of laughter. Am I so much the same as I was? Seventeen, twenty-three, what's the difference? Aren't we always the person we are?

Time is barely a bother to me, anymore. In fact, it's more of a nuisance, seeing as the world runs on everyone else's watches, while I am left behind, perfectly content to revel in a world of disappointment and loneliness, even in the company of the one I chose. Time waits for nobody, and nobody I have become.

Who was I, to ask _him_ to run on my time, when I had already become the hand of someone else's clock?

I can hear him calling me, but he doesn't really expect me to exit this place just yet. I still have breaths I need to take here, still things I need to remember, relive.

It's a welcome surprise, when that breath is there, when the scent of the wildflowers is with it. Do I still have a right, to call this place mine? Or was that title faded away with every spring I wasn't here to watch bloom?

Was he here for those springs, every year? Did he count every flower that bloomed, every bud that became a rose? Or did he forget this place just as I fear myself doing?

Does he know? Does he know?

When he calls me back again, I suddenly feel choked. In description, it's like he was reaching for my throat like he did when those metallic memories came across him, but he's not trying this time. He has stifled me without even reaching out his arm.

"Hold on," I manage to call out, jumping off the rock — our rock — I found myself sitting on. "I need some time."

I don't hear his reply, but it's not like it matters much. I can't be torn out of here just yet. I break into a run, thankful that my hunter's tread was one thing not stolen from me. I'm able to make it to the shelter of some pine trees before I fall to my knees. The choking feeling has been joined by a sinking, in the pit of my stomach.

For some reason, I find myself rising, digging my feet into the soft ground of pine needles and mulch to burst into another run. This is a path I know, I realize, as I effortlessly dodge every hazardous tree stump, every rut.

When my feet finally stop, my knees come crashing again today. My hands are in control now, ripping through the soil and weeds to something far beneath the surface. The soil fills the space under my fingernails, but that only gives me more traction as I pulled out the dirt from the hole.

My knuckles plow into something softer than rock yet harder than dirt, but they instinctively wrap my fingers around it, pulling it from it's hiding place.

But, the hole isn't wide enough yet, and whatever this is, whatever I _need_ in this hole, is fragile enough to break. I rapidly dig out the rest of the dirt, revealing a trapezoidal gap.

Something in me tells me to grab whatever it is, covered in layers of earth and soil. Grab it now. Thoughtlessly, I comply, catching my knuckles on what feels like wire, till blindly, I find the smoother, wider part I had tried to grab before.

It's obviously light, so it takes little effort to pull it up into view.

And instantly, I understand. Just below it, I bring up another object — a cylinder this time. He is written over every inch of the bow.

It's not his old bow, in fact, it's distinctly new. It's more ornate than my old, unused bow and his as well. It reminds me vaguely of the bow I proudly carried as the Mockingjay, except that when I sling this on my shoulder and string one of the equally beautiful arrows across it, this feels a million times more natural.

I stay like that for a little, the arrow across the bow and bow pushed up against my chest, drawn up for a kill.

I can see his smirk, though, when I look at him in this half-daze, half-dream, it's more of a pained grimace than anything. But, still, he looks me in the eye, and I'm damned if he doesn't say, "One last dance, Catnip?"

And even though I know he's not there, even though I know it's just a hallucination, I smirk right back and reply "Of course."

So nevertheless, I pull back the arrow, feeling the glide of the polished wood of the arrow's shaft against the horsehair string, and release it. The arrow soars, peaking at the first split of the nearby white pine, before wedging it's head into a mockingjay I didn't even know was there.

I was convinced he was there with me when I shot the arrow, there being my eyes, my ears, but when the flailing bird is before my eyes, there's someone else I _almost_ wish was with me.

I rush towards the bird, taking it's bloodied body in my hand. The arrow struck in the middle of it's body, which in turn bled out to stain the dying bird's wing a horrifying scarlet red.

It's gaze is intent, as it halts it's fluttering wind, pauses it's twitching feet. The small beak parts for a moment to whistle out a tune, but the small bird dies before the sound comes off it's tongue.

He would feel no guilt for this. The bird would be just another meal for him, but this little bird is everything I've killed, holding it in my hand. It is Rue, dying when I failed to protect her. It is Prim, dying when I couldn't reach her. It is even those who remind me of the living dead, my mother, when my father died. Peeta, after the hijacking.

I can't bury it. I can't pile on dirt on this sacred budgie, cover it with layers of earth so it one day becomes just another blanket for the dead.

This is a kill I couldn't take, a rare event for me. But, cradling it in my palm, feeling the last drips of blood travel down my wrist …

I look over to the hole where I found the bow. But, that bow is not meant for me. Those arrows are not mine to let fly. I crawl over to it, lowering my hand so I can place the bird down by it. I fit the sheath of arrows beside it, before I crown it with the bow. I cup the dirt in my hands, which stick to the bloody spots. Handful by handful, I fill the hole I had dug so purposefully.

"One last dance, Catnip?" I hear him ask me again. I don't bother to turn, don't bother to look for him. He's there, invisibly. He always is. He always was.

**AN: I actually originally intended this to be a song fic of Far Away - Nickelback. But, I ended up getting ahead of myself and getting away from the lyrics, so instead you get this! Yay? Anyways, I'd be interested to hear if this came out too confusing. As always, thank you for reading!**


End file.
